


Right Inside the Human Mind

by allfinehere



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:10:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfinehere/pseuds/allfinehere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson works in a book shop, and everything is well in order and predictable until he lets Sherlock Holmes borrow a book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely inspired by a fantastic picture by navydream on Tumblr: http://navydream.tumblr.com/post/41343742780/i-didnt-get-to-participate-on-this-johnlock
> 
> Regarding the title, I ripped it RIGHT OUT OF A LIBRARY BOOK. It's from Good Omens by Neil Gaiman.
> 
> I hope to update this fairly frequently. I'm not sure how many parts there will be in all, but I suppose I'm aiming for two or three.  
> \---------------------------------------------

John looked up as the small bell above the door chimed merrily, announcing the arrival of another customer. When he’d first begun working at the book shop, the bell had annoyed him. Over time he’d grown used to it, and now he saw it as a sort of cheery little friend. He’d never tell anyone that, of course, as he didn’t want to be written off as a lunatic. 

A small, rotund woman had entered the store and was going through the romance novels with a single-minded intensity that scared John a little. She was dressed entirely in pale yellow and reminded John of a lemon drop. He smiled to himself, thinking he really shouldn’t be comparing customers to candy. After a very short time she brought five books to the checkout counter, giving John a glare just daring him to say anything negative about her selections. He never did, though. If he had commentary about the books people chose, it was always positive. In this case, he had absolutely nothing to say - he stayed just about as far away from the romance novels as possible. Just the covers were enough to put him off. Once he’d tried reading one because he’d always lived by the standard of ‘you ought to try everything at least once,’ but he only got a few pages in before he felt slightly ill. 

Handing the woman her change with a smile, John settled back in with his book. Technically he wasn’t supposed to read while working, but he’d finished everything except the organization of the Rare Books section, and he needed a break from that. The store was quite large, but had an elegant antique look and an old, peaceful feeling about it. It had been in business for almost one hundred years, the ownership staying in the same family. Its appearance had been maintained but never updated because people seemed to enjoy the experience of choosing their books in a grand, high ceilinged building. Above the shop were a few small flats, and John lived in one of them. He wasn’t part of the family that owned the shop, but he was a trustworthy worker and they treated him kindly. He also suspected that they offered him the job and rented him the flat at least partially out of pity. 

In his mid twenties he had been invalided out of the war far too early by a gunshot wound to the shoulder and subsequent infection that nearly killed him. When he’d gotten back to London, he had no idea what to do with his life. The plan had been to stay in the army until he was either old enough to retire, or killed. Being sent home was definitely not part of that plan, so while he made a new one he had to get a job to pay the rent and feed himself. Happening on the grand old bookstore with a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window, he shrugged and went in to apply. He had always liked books, so he figured it couldn’t be too bad. A year later, the manager, Karen, had offered him one of the recently vacated flats above the store and he’d gladly accepted, eager to get out of the tiny flat the army provided. It was now several years after his return to London and he still didn’t have a plan. He missed the excitement and the feeling of being so very alive that the war had provided him, but his current life was nothing to complain about. As far as he could tell, he’d been very lucky since his return.

The chime of the bell snapped him out of his reverie, as a tall man in a blue scarf and a long coat strode in and headed toward the Science section - Biology specifically, John noted - as if he’d been in the store a thousand times and knew exactly where to find what he was looking for. This wasn’t uncommon with many of his regular customers, but John had never seen this man in his life. Intrigued, he watched the man repeatedly pick up a book, turn to a specific page, scowl, and return it to the shelf. After going through about fifteen books, the man turned and stalked out of the store, coat billowing dramatically behind him. John shrugged as he stood up to continue his work in the Rare Books section; all sorts of people came into the store, and he’d stopped finding their quirks in behavior strange long ago.

A few days later, the man in the coat returned. He entered the shop in the exact same way and John could have sworn the bell rang a bit more regally, as if it recognized this man was something different, something special. At any rate, he certainly carried himself as if he thought so. This time he headed towards Poetry, which was up on the second level, and John lost sight of him. Several customers lined up at once, and John kept himself busy ringing up their books and starting small conversations with him. He was good at talking to people, which was good for business and he suspected it was another reason Karen had offered him the flat upstairs. These days John practically ran the shop himself as Karen was busy with her family. It was fine by him; it gave him a sense of pride and responsibility. 

When the line dwindled and the last customer went out the door, John returned to his book. He’d read it many times before; the spine was so creased it could lay flat all on its own, many pages were dog-eared, and the cover was bent in several places. John could get a new copy, but he liked this one. He’d picked up several of the newer editions, but they never felt right.

“That’s a waste of your time, you know.”

John looked up sharply, a dark scowl on his face. The tall man in the long coat who had entered the shop at least - he checked his watch - an hour ago stood at the service desk, looking disdainfully at John’s book.

“Heaven, hell, armageddon - it’s all rather pointless, don’t you think?” he continued.

John smirked. “That _is_ the point. Have you even read it?”

“I read enough,” the stranger sniffed.

“Clearly not,” John retorted. On a sudden impulse, he held the well-loved copy out. “Do you want to borrow it? You could finish it up properly and then get back to me on whether it’s a waste of my time,” he offered, the smirk still lingering about his lips. What had made him offer up his favorite copy of one of his favorite books to a complete stranger, he had no idea.

The man studied John with an intensity that made John feel like he could see right inside him and perhaps read his thoughts. Then, he reached out, took the book, and strode swiftly out of the shop. John watched him go, feeling a bit wistful. It was very likely he’d never see that book again. 

* * *

The next day, John decided to finish his work in the Rare Books section once and for all. There was still quite a long way to go and completing it in one day was perhaps a bit optimistic, but he was going to give it a shot. It was usually slow on Thursdays, and the steady drizzle made it even less likely that customers would come by, so he figured he’d be able to get a lot of work done. The shop hadn’t dealt in rare books until Karen thought it might be a good idea about a month ago. She had been in charge of acquiring them, but John was delegated the task of recording their stock and organizing it. He ended up organizing the books by genre, then alphabetical by author within each mini-genre section. It was taking rather a long time. 

Absorbed in his work, he never even heard the chime of the bell announcing the arrival of only his second customer of the day. A sharp, concise tap on his shoulder startled him tremendously and he jumped up, overturning a stack of poetry books that he’d just organized. “ _Shit_ ,” he muttered to himself as he tried to rescue his work to no avail. When he realized he had sworn in front of a customer, a light blush spread across his cheeks. “Er - sorry,” he said, standing up properly and straightening out his uniform. “How can I help - oh.” It was the man from yesterday, holding out his favorite copy of Good Omens. John took it with a questioning look.

“It was dull and predictable,” the man announced. “But not entirely awful,” he conceded. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I liked Crowley.”

“I suppose if I were an arrogant prat I’d say something about not judging books by their covers,” John grinned. “I’m just glad you liked it.”

The man studied him for a moment. “You really are, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

John nodded anyway. “Sure. I always like it when people like my favorite books. Especially when I get to introduce them. My name’s John,” he said, offering his hand.

The man paused for a moment, then shook John’s hand. If there was a definition of the perfect handshake, John was pretty certain that had been it. “I know,” he replied calmly. When John raised his eyebrows in surprise, he continued, “Name tag,” in a bored voice as if it was incredibly obvious.

“Oh...right,” John replied, feeling a bit foolish. He often forgot he wore a name tag. It was a small unobtrusive brass pin, easily ignored. 

“I’m Sherlock,” the man continued. “A book shop is a bit dull for someone who’s been to war,” he commented, perusing the books John had just shelved. “What are you doing here?”

John frowned. “I’m definitely not wearing a name tag that tells you my previous occupations. How did you know that?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I watched you,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. 

“Well I watched _you_ and all I know is that you have a curious taste in books,” John retorted. “Biology and poetry?”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “That was for a case. I was doing research. I am interested in biology to some extent, but I don’t much care for poetry. Don’t really see the point.”

John couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, me neither. So, a case? What sort of case?” he asked, sidetracked momentarily from finding out how Sherlock knew about him.

“I’m a consulting detective,” he replied shortly, picking up another book and leafing through it.

“There’s no such thing,” John laughed, thinking Sherlock was joking. However, a sidelong glare from the man put to rest any thought that he might have said it in jest. “What, really?”

“Yes, really,” he replied in an annoyed tone of voice. “What reason would I have for fabricating my work?”

“Well - never mind,” John conceded. “I believe you. So how’d you know I was in the army?” he asked, getting back to his original query. 

“You’ve been shot in the left shoulder,” Sherlock replied instantly, almost as if he’d been waiting to explain. “It’s unlikely that you were involved in any gang or criminal activity. Could be the police force, but a gunshot wound would most likely transfer you to a different, not force you out of the career. So, war. You were shot and invalided back to London. You needed a job while you decided which direction to take your life, but you grew complacent and have worked here for...four, five years?”

“Five,” John replied, somewhat dumbstruck. “And I’m not ‘complacent.’ This is a good job,” he insisted. “But, yeah...you’re right about the rest. That’s...well, that’s amazing.”

Sherlock turned sharply to look at him with a piercing gray-blue stare. “What?”

“Um, what you did. Figuring all those things out about me. It was pretty brilliant,” John explained. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

“It’s - nothing. It’s just not what people usually say,” he replied shortly.

“Well what do they usually say?” John asked in a slightly perplexed tone.

“Piss off,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. 

John laughed and knelt down to reorder the books he’d knocked over. “Well they’re a right lot of idiots, then.”

Sherlock gave John a curious look, which John didn’t notice as he was attempting to rescue at least an hour’s worth of work. “Do you have any other books I might not despise?” he asked at last, the corner of his mouth tugged upwards just slightly.

Happy to have an excuse not to work on the Rare Books section anymore, John promptly got up and headed back downstairs towards the checkout counter. “Yeah, sure,” he said as he walked. “Did you like Gaiman?” he asked.

“Gaiman? Oh, the author. Yes, I suppose he was bearable as far as fiction authors go,” Sherlock replied as he followed John.

John rolled his eyes. “All right then. You want something funny again, or something darker?”

“Darker,” came Sherlock’s immediate reply.

John wondered about that, but didn’t comment as he fished around in the books he had stashed in a drawer under the counter. Finally he located the book he was searching for. It wasn’t quite as worn as Good Omens was, but it was obvious it had been read time and again. He held it out and Sherlock took it, leafing through the pages as if he’d be able to determine how good it was by snatches of phrases. “American Gods,” he murmured. 

“Yeah, there’s a bit of mystery to it so you’ll probably like it, what with being a ‘consulting detective’ and all,” John said with a small smile.

“I’m certain I’ll solve any mysteries it might contain immediately, but thank you for the consideration,” Sherlock replied.

John was a bit taken aback. Yes, Sherlock was fairly arrogant as far as he could tell, but the last bit was stated simply as fact. He wondered just how smart Sherlock was. “Well, I can’t promise you’ll like it. You don’t really seem like the type who enjoys fiction,” he said.  
“You are correct. Perhaps you aren’t such an idiot after all,” Sherlock replied, giving John a considering look.

John bristled. “Oi! I’m _not_ an idiot,” he said firmly.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Everyone’s an idiot.” For some reason, that made John feel a little better.

“I’ll return your book soon. Good afternoon,” Sherlock said, and swept out of the store before John could say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Omens is actually by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, not just Neil Gaiman. I took a bit of creative leeway there so the story would continue to flow smoothly as John doesn't have any Pratchett books in his drawer.
> 
> American Gods is by Neil Gaiman.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might end up being four parts, not three. Guess I'll see how the next section goes!
> 
> All of John's favorite books thus far are some of my favorite books haha #shameless
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John spent the following day in anticipation of Sherlock’s return, wondering what he had thought of the book or if he’d deduce any more things about John. Sure, it was a little odd to have a stranger know about you just by looking at you, but John didn’t feel like it was an invasion of privacy as he imagined most people did. It was almost like a magician’s trick except it wasn’t a trick at all, and that’s what made it brilliant. There were no gimmicks; it was just Sherlock. John shot looks out the front windows all day long, waiting for the mysterious man to appear.

He didn’t come.

Locking the door and flipping the sign to ‘Closed,’ John felt more disappointed than he thought he ought to. It appeared very likely that he wouldn’t be seeing his book again, but he found he didn’t care so much in light of the probability that he wouldn’t see the consulting detective again. Perhaps he’d come by tomorrow, but John didn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.

Quite right too, he thought as Sherlock failed to appear the next day or the day after that. Giving up hope, John settled back into his usual routine. He had been reading what he thought might be more impressive books in case Sherlock stopped by, but now there didn’t seem to be any reason to do so. Feeling nostalgic and not much up to a challenge, he pulled _Redwall_ out of his drawer. It had been his favorite book as a kid, and he still enjoyed the story and the feeling of being young and carefree that it gave him, like echoes of his childhood.

The bell rang as a woman and her two small children, a boy and a girl, entered the shop. While she struggled to close her large polka-dotted umbrella, the kids immediately ran off to the Children’s section. John was fond of that part of the store; it seemed softer and a bit less grand, more welcoming to the youngest generation. There was a train set on a wooden table, which was a more recent addition, as well as a variety of chairs for kids and adults to sit and peruse what the store had to offer. The young girl immediately sat down to play with the trains, and the boy sat himself down in front of a shelf of picture books.

Once she had wrestled her umbrella under control, the woman threw an apologetic smile at John, then hurried after her children. The girl was quite content playing with the trains, but the boy looked tearfully at his mom as she arrived.

“You promised we could get Skippyjon Jones today, but it’s not here,” he lamented in the perfectly serious, overly dramatic style that seemed to come naturally to every child.

“Are you sure?” she asked, kneeling down. “I’ll help you look,” she added as she began sifting through the colorful books packed tightly on the shelves. 

The boy’s lower lip began to quiver and his large green eyes were glassy with tears just on the brink of spilling over onto his rosy cheeks. Noticing the impending breakdown, John walked over quickly and asked, “Which Skippyjon Jones were you looking for, then?”

His question was aimed at the mother, but the boy piped up before she could get a word in edgewise. “Lost in Spice!” he exclaimed, brightening up a bit now that there was a chance he might get his book after all.

“Ah,” John replied knowingly. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve pulled a bit of a trick on you,” he explained to the boy. “I rearranged the the books to fit in a new shipment, so Skippyjon Jones has moved all the way to the top shelf.” John located the book, pulled it out, and handed it to the child, who contrived to look both ecstatic and displeased.

“You shouldn’t play tricks on kids, ‘cause it’s not nice,” he said with a small sniffle as he clutched the book to his chest. 

John managed a serious expression and replied, “You are absolutely right. I promise to never play tricks on any kids ever again.”

The boy nodded and offered John a smile. “Kay, good. Thank you for my Skippyjon Jones,” he added politely, then trotted over to join his sister at the train table. John smiled at the mother to show he harbored no ill will towards her very lawful child, and headed back up to the counter.

John had written a couple notes to himself regarding an event the store was hosting in a month, but they had disappeared so he went on the hunt. He was crouched down and going through a drawer full of papers that he really ought to file when a voice startled him enough that he jumped and hit his head on the edge of the counter. Biting his lip and rubbing at his head, he stood up to find none other than Sherlock. Sherlock with a black eye, no less.

“You have _really_ got to stop doing that,” John said through clenched teeth. ‘Clumsy shopkeeper’ was not the impression he wanted to give, but so far he was doing a pretty bang-up job of it. “Did you manage to disable the door bell or what?”

“I did not,” came the cool reply. “You simply were not attentive to its sound. No surprise, really, since you’ve heard it day in and day out for the past five years. Doesn’t it get _dull_?”

John frowned, not pleased about this attack on his skills and his job. “No, it doesn’t,” he retorted. “I have lots of things to keep me busy, ta very much.” If there was a note of sarcasm in his voice, it was because Sherlock’s assessment had hit a little too close to home. John liked his job well enough, but it was not exactly exciting. 

“And what’s this?” Sherlock asked as he casually picked up John’s book and flipped through the pages. “A children’s book. My, you are in rare form today, John.”

It was supposed to have been exciting to see Sherlock again, but John found he was mostly annoyed and angry. “Look, if you came here just to insult me I -” he began, but he didn’t get a chance to finish as Sherlock abruptly held out the book he’d borrowed several days before. 

“Again, predictable, but enjoyable for the most part. I liked the bit about the girl in the truck on the frozen lake. Interesting what people will ignore as long as it ensures their safety, isn’t it?” he mused. John was about to reply with his thoughts on the matter when the detective continued, though on a completely different subject. “So you’re good with children, then. Thought you might be, though I’ll admit I didn’t know for certain.” Sherlock leaned in over the counter and peered closely at John. John’s breath hitched a bit at his sudden nearness, but he held his ground. “You have kind eyes. It makes people more inclined to trust you, whether you deserve it or not,” he smirked.

“I - well, thanks, I suppose,” John replied, unsure whether that was a compliment or an insult. “Speaking of eyes, what happened to yours?” John asked, referring to the vivid blue and purple bruise around Sherlock’s left eye.

“Oh, that,” Sherlock said dismissively, as if he’d forgotten all about the injury that was keeping his eye partly swollen shut. “I’ve been working on a case the past few days and had a bit of a run-in with the suspect and a two-by-four. He’s a bit worse off, though. And headed to prison for life,” Sherlock added with a note of triumph in his voice, looking quite pleased with himself.

“What, really?” John asked, unconsciously leaning forward and eager to hear more. “What did he do? How did you catch him?”

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment, then smiled a genuine smile, not the fake one he gave most people. “He was wanted on three counts of murder. Not very clever murders, but he was fairly competent at hiding. When I found him he was staying at a distant relative’s. My plan had been to wait there until he came home, but I had miscalculated his arrival and he caught me by surprise, hence the two-by-four to the head. It was the first and only blow he managed to land as I incapacitated him quickly enough.” He shrugged. “Not much to tell after that.”

John nodded, clearly impressed. “So that’s where you’ve been, then. I sort of thought I might not be seeing you again,” he admitted. 

“Well of course you would. I still had your book,” Sherlock said, as if not returning the book had not occurred to him.

“Yeah, but people often don’t return things they’ve been lent,” John replied. “So I thought perhaps you’d forgotten,” he added with an awkward shrug. 

“I delete things, but I don’t _forget_ ,” Sherlock said, leaving John to wonder what ‘delete things’ meant when applied to a human rather than a computer. “Have you got another book for me?” Sherlock asked. “The last two were...decent distractions.”

John smiled and said, “Yeah, sure. Just a moment.” He had spent quiet moments during the past few days daydreaming about what books Sherlock might be interested in, despite the fact that it had looked like John wasn’t going to be seeing him again. Pulling out a larger book with a dark blue hard cover, he handed it to Sherlock. “This is All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriot. It’s about him starting his career as a vet in Yorkshire in the nineteen thirties. It’s like a medical journal of sorts. I don’t know how you feel about animals, but I thought you might like it. There are lots of good stories and plenty of interesting characters in it, at any rate,” John said. He probably sounded a little too eager for Sherlock’s approval of the book, but it was one of his favorites and he found himself really wanting Sherlock to like it as well. However, John could gain no clue as to what Sherlock’s initial impressions were as his face remained an impassive mask. 

“Thank you, John,” he said as he pulled on his gloves and picked up the book. “Unless a case detains me again, you will have your book back tomorrow.” And with a wink, he was gone.

It took John a moment to register the fact that Sherlock had just _winked_ at him, and he wondered if it was just a habit the peculiar man had, or if it had meant something. Not wanting to overanalyze the situation, John distracted himself by straightening up the counter and was grateful when the mother and her two children came to purchase their books.

The rest of the day went on as usual, and John was just picking up the key to lock the front door when the bell chimed. Groaning inwardly, John looked up to see what sort of person entered a shop at closing time. John had every right to ask them to leave, but rarely did. He simply locked the door so no one else would come in, let the customers look around, and ring them up need be. 

The man who had entered the shop was quite possibly the poshest man John had ever seen. He wore a dark grey three piece suit and carried an umbrella, using it as a walking stick of sorts, and John was fairly sure he saw the gold chain of a pocket watch glinting from beneath the suit jacket. The man strode purposefully toward John and said, “I understand you have been associating with Sherlock Holmes,” then looked at John expectantly with a hint of impatience.

“Well, I don’t know about the Holmes part, but I suppose there aren’t too many Sherlocks wandering about London,” John said evenly, growing suspicious of the man.

“And may I ask what your interest in him is?” the man asked cooly.

“You may, but I don’t think it’s any of your business,” John replied, a hint of warning in his tone. “What do _you_ want with him?”

The corner of the man’s mouth quirked upward minutely for the tiniest of moments. “Let’s just say I am interested in his wellbeing. I would be willing to offer you a considerable sum of money to inform me of his activities. Nothing of a personal nature, of course. Just the general day-to-day sort of thing.”

John frowned. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what your actual interest in Sherlock is, but I’m not going to spy on him for you. He’s only been in here a couple times, anyway.”

“Ah, but anything more than once is unusual for him, my dear soldier,” the man replied. Upon noticing the concerned look John shot him, he added, “Oh yes, I make it my business to know about the people my brother chooses to associate with. For his own good, you know. He used to have some...unfortunate habits and I’d hate to see him go down that road again.”

Despite the new information John had just gleaned from the mysterious man, he still didn’t have a good feeling about him. “I’m not interested in being your spy,” he said firmly. “And I hardly know Sherlock well enough to do you any good anyway. The shop is closed now, but if you’d like to return we open at nine tomorrow,” he said politely, but it was a clear invitation to leave. 

The man nodded easily, as if he was just about to leave of his own accord. “You already know him better than most, John. Good evening.”

As John watched him walk out the door and slide gracefully into a sleek black car, he wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into by lending a book to Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Skippyjon Jones books are by Judy Schachner.
> 
> All Creatures Great and Small is by James Herriot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. I am not particularly proud of this chapter, but the next (and last) one will be better!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

Standing in front of the Rare Books section, John surveyed his work with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Determined to finish it, he had come in early and spent nearly all morning organizing, shelving and cataloguing. He had a tiny lingering sense that it wouldn’t really be appreciated by anyone but him as he didn’t usually get customers asking for first editions of obscure books, but perhaps now that the display was finished people might be inclined to peruse it. Either way, it was complete.

Walking back to the counter, John idly wondered if Sherlock was going to make an appearance today. Maybe he had another case and wouldn’t show up for days again. John was slightly displeased to find that he was jealous when he thought about Sherlock running after criminals through the streets of London. He shouldn’t be thinking like that; he was very fortunate to have the job he had, even if it did lack excitement. In fact, John realized with a fair amount of dismay, the most exciting thing to happen lately before Sherlock came around was a customer who came in and demanded a refund on his book because he didn’t like how it had ended. John had calmly explained that they didn’t issue refunds based on the purchaser’s enjoyment of the book, and they _especially_ did not issue refunds for books with their covers torn off. The man had stammered and stuttered as his round, bespectacled face grew increasingly red, then he threw the book in John’s face and stormed out of the shop. 

John sighed. It definitely did not compare to anything Sherlock did. Well, what he assumed Sherlock did. He realized he didn’t know much beyond the story Sherlock had told him yesterday. In fact, he barely knew anything about Sherlock at all except that he was arrogant, mysterious, had a job of his own creation, and apparently an overprotective older brother. _That_ little visit might have been enough to put many people off of being friendly with Sherlock, but John was a stubborn man. He was also intrigued, and would welcome most anything to break up the repetitive routine of his days.

A new shipment of books had arrived while John was completing his Rare Books project, so he hadn’t had a chance to go through them yet. The brown boxes were stacked haphazardly by the delivery man, and always one for being tidy, John straightened them out before he picked up the first of them and set it on the counter. Fishing out some scissors from a drawer, he expertly opened the box and paused to admire what turned out to be the order of children’s books. They always looked so lovely when they were brand new; shiny, colorful, unbent, and unwrinkled. Laying them out on the counter, John began organizing them alphabetically so that it would be easier to shelve them later.

Just when he’d nearly covered the counter in books, the bell above the door rang out in announcement of the arrival of a customer. Glancing at the counter, John shrugged. The customers would just have to deal with a cluttered counter for one day. He did, however, break down the box and lay it on the floor to take out later.

When he saw the customer was most likely not a customer at all, John smiled. “Sherlock,” he said in greeting. “Thought you might’ve been old Mr. O’Brien. He comes in every single Thursday, rain or shine. Suppose he’s having a later outing today. So, what did you think of the book?”

Sherlock, who had the book in hand, returned it to John. “I...appreciated the scientific aspect of it. Some of the treatments they used then were laughably ineffective. How they didn’t manage proper ones until much later is beyond me,” he stated. 

Thinking it was a joke, John nearly laughed until he realized Sherlock was perfectly serious, so he just nodded and waited for Sherlock to continue.

“However, John, the people in the book are ridiculous. You know, the farmers and such. Many of them were simply unbelievable.”

At that, John did laugh. “Those are true stories, Sherlock. People _are_ actually like that. Surely you come across some fairly eccentric people when you’re...consulting,” John replied in mild astonishment.

Sherlock shook his head. “I do my best to avoid people for the most part. Idiots, the lot of them,” he said dismissively.

John was pleased to see that today he did not seem to be categorized into the ‘idiot’ class, even though ‘not an idiot’ wasn’t exactly a compliment. Though perhaps from Sherlock, it was. “So, I had a visit from a man claiming to be your brother last night,” John mentioned, keeping his voice carefully casual. 

Sherlock had been casually rifling through John’s neat piles, but his head jerked up and he narrowed his eyes at John’s comment. “Hm. So, which was it? ‘For my own good’ or ‘because I’m dangerous’?” Sherlock questioned, voice tinged with sarcasm. 

That was not the response John had been expecting. “Um, both maybe, if by ‘dangerous’ he meant ‘dangerous to yourself.’ He said he kept tabs on people you associate with for your own good, because of some habits you used to have.” John ended awkwardly, because though he was no detective, it was a pretty easy guess as to what Sherlock’s ‘unfortunate habits’ might have been.

A curious expression crossed Sherlock’s face before it became an impassive mask once again. “So how much did he offer you?”

“He didn’t. Well, he did,” John amended quickly, “but he never said an amount because I said no. So...he does this often, then?” John asked cautiously, not wanting to appear as if he was prying into Sherlock’s personal life.

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Sherlock replied, as though the subject had already bored him enough to move on to something more interesting. “Generally if I speak to someone more than once, provided they do not relate to my work, he swoops in and makes the same speech to them as he did to you. Everyone chooses the money, of course. I only tolerate it because it depletes his funds for no real purpose and that amuses me. I don’t have friends; sentimentality is not really my area,” he explained with a dismissive gesture of his hand that suggested this did not bother him in the least.

A pang bloomed John’s chest and settled there, a cold phantom weight on his heart. He had been enjoying Sherlock’s visits and had recently let himself hope that they might at least become friends; John did not have much of a social life and admittedly got lonely at times. He had thought his offer of friendship was pretty clear what with the books he lent Sherlock as well as the refusal of his brother’s bribe, but apparently Sherlock wasn’t interested. Realizing disappointment was probably fairly evident on his face, John busied himself with piling up the books that needed to be shelved. 

“I see,” he replied cooly. “Well, I didn’t take the offer and you don’t have to worry about me...reporting to him or whatever it is people do.” Picking up his stack of books, John headed to Children’s Books to shelve them. He knew it was childish to just walk away, but he was feeling hurt and defensive. He began slotting the books into their proper places and rearranging a few things here and there when there was a tap on his shoulder, which startled him. Taking a breath to steady himself, he turned around to face Sherlock. “You really shouldn’t do that to an ex-soldier with PTSD, you know,” he said quietly.

“Apologies,” Sherlock said with a graceful incline of his head. “It won’t happen again.” 

He was quiet for a moment, and John waited expectantly. “Well?” he asked when Sherlock failed to say anything.

“It’s just - you haven’t given me a book yet,” Sherlock replied, looking slightly embarrassed. John’s gaze softened. Though it was a fairly far-fetched idea, perhaps the man actually didn’t know how to make friends.

“Oh, yeah. Let me just finish with this lot here then I’ll get one, okay?” John replied. He finished faster than he would normally with Sherlock’s restless movements and tapping foot to urge him on. Heading back to the counter with Sherlock right on his heels, John began going through the books in his drawer. Sherlock peered over his shoulder, having apparently invited himself behind the counter. 

“I’m not really sure what to suggest this time,” John murmured as he picked up books and tossed them back.

“What’s that one?” Sherlock asked with a smile playing about his lips, pointing to a book with a yellow and brown cover displaying a rabbit on the front.

“Oh, um. That’s Watership Down,” John replied as a faint pink blush dusted his cheeks. “My mum used to read it to me when I was a kid, and I still like it. Actually, some of it’s a bit rough for kids, but I thought it was cool,” he grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think you’ll like it. I mean, it’s a story about rabbits who leave their home to find another home and end up in a war of sorts with another group of rabbits. They -”

“Well don’t spoil it,” Sherlock said as he snatched the book out of the drawer. “Then reading it will be twice as dull.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” John replied, confusion written on his face. “Why are you interested in it, anyway?”

“I’m not interested in it,” Sherlock replied simply. “I’m interested in you.” That being said, he promptly left the shop leaving a dumbfounded John Watson in his wake. People really needed to stop leaving before answering all his questions. It was becoming a bit frustrating. 

The rest of John’s day progressed normally, if not a bit busier than usual. He appreciated the steady stream of customers, though, as it gave him something to do besides wonder what the hell Sherlock was up to. He took a book John was fairly certain he wouldn’t like because he was apparently interested in John. But interested how? Admittedly John wanted it to be romantically, but he was fairly certain Sherlock wasn’t interested in romance at all, based on his little speech earlier. Then was he interested in John as a puzzle? Some mystery to be solved? That was most likely, and John didn’t want to think about what might happen if and when Sherlock figured him out.

The end of the day arrived quickly, and John locked up the shop and headed out to do some shopping as he was quite low on the food supplies front. It was drizzling outside, so John pulled up his hood as he walked to avoid getting entirely soaked.   
When he saw the tall figure with the umbrella advancing on him, John fought the urge to roll his eyes. At least the umbrella served a purpose today. “So,” John began, wanting to have the upper hand in the conversation. “You here to bribe me again? Tell me that Sherlock is dangerous? I can take care of myself, thanks,” John said cooly. 

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up, but the small smile did not reach his eyes. “No. On the contrary, John, I am here to warn you. If my brother comes to any harm because of you, things will not go well for you. You appear to make him happy, and I would encourage that. However, by that same measure you also possess the power to hurt him and I will be most displeased if you do. Make your decisions carefully, John,” he warned, then brushed past him and strode easily down the street as if the inclement weather didn’t bother him in the slightest.

* * *

It continued to rain through the night and into the next morning, and since he’d already shelved the orders that came in yesterday John settled down with a book. He was startled when the bell rang harshly as a silver-haired man strode into the shop with a harrowed look on his face. “Are you John Watson?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

“Yeah, I am,” John replied as he set down his book and stood up. “Can I help you?”

The man held out a badge. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade,” he said by way of introduction. “Has Sherlock Holmes been in here recently?”

“Not since yesterday, early afternoon,” John replied quickly. “Is something wrong?”

Lestrade sighed and handed John a card with his contact information. “If you see him or hear anything, call me immediately, please. He’s gone missing.” And without further explanation, the detective headed back out into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watership Down is by Richard Adams


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long with this update! It's a little longer than the other chapters so hopefully that makes up for it. Thanks again to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented on this story. I started out writing it just for fun/myself, but it's awesome that so many of you have enjoyed it - you became my motivation. You all are fantastic!

John slept uneasily that night, dreaming up all sorts of terrible things that might have happened to Sherlock. Had he been kidnapped? Or was he injured, waiting somewhere for help that wasn’t going to come? Perhaps he had gone into hiding. John’s imagination ran wild as he tossed and turned, tangling himself in his sheets. Finally his phone read 6:00 AM and he decided that was an acceptable hour to give up on sleeping and get out of bed. Going into work early was preferable to driving himself mad with worry and frustration. 

As he made tea, he did a bit of soul-searching. From an impartial standpoint, it made no logical sense for him to be as concerned about Sherlock as he was. Yes, Sherlock had been to the shop several times, but John had regular customers like Mr. O’Brien whom he saw far more frequently. If they went missing, would he be as concerned? True, he’d worry a bit and keep an eye out for them, but he had to admit that he wouldn’t be as anxious about them as he currently was about Sherlock.

John’s involvement was largely emotional, then. He laughed shortly to himself. He didn’t even know if they were properly friends, and here he was losing sleep over the detective. John was friendly, but the only real friend he had was Mike Stamford and he’d only recently reconnected with him. That left John with two possible conclusions: either he really was lonely enough to attempt to be friends with a new customer, or he was attracted to Sherlock.

Running a hand agitatedly through his hair, he sighed. If he was honest with himself, it was probably a bit of both. And if he was even more honest, it was pretty pathetic.

John spent the rest of his time getting ready for the day attempting not to dwell on his revelation and failed miserably. When he went down to the book store, he sank into one of the soft armchairs scattered throughout the store, resting his head on the back and closing his eyes. He breathed int he smell of old and new books; there was nothing quite like it and it had always held a sense of peace for John. He sat in silence, realizing after a while that whatever had happened to Sherlock, it was completely out of his hands so he needed to stop worrying. All he could do was get on with his job and perhaps keep an eye out for the detective. With a new resolve, he hauled himself out of the plush chair and went to the counter, sitting down at the computer. He had recorded the rare books by hand, but they still needed to be entered into the store’s database. John’s typing method was not exactly the most efficient, so this was shaping up to be a fairly daunting task.

An hour ticked quickly by and John groaned, pushing himself away from the computer and stretching. He hadn’t made very much progress and it was already time to open. Swiping the key off the counter as he walked, he unlocked the door and flipped the sign to ‘Open.’ Settling back in his chair, he organized his notes and began his laborious task once again.

When he heard knocking, he glanced over at the front door thinking perhaps he hadn’t unlocked it properly. However, no one was there so he listened carefully for the next knock and was was surprised to hear it coming form the alley door. John only ever used that door to take out the garbage and recycling, so why was there someone knocking at it?

Putting his hand on the tarnished brass knob, John turned it slowly and opened the door cautiously. He was nearly knocked over as a figure pushed its way into the store. John immediately slipped into a fighting stance, ready to defend himself from his attacker. He was justifiably confused when the figure immediately began speaking to him rather than assaulting him.

“Oh, John, it was _brilliant_!” Sherlock exclaimed, wild green-grey eyes shining.

Jon let out a sigh and dropped his fists to his side. “Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell are you playing at?”

Sherlock paused his excited pacing and shot John a withering look. “Obvious. I’m telling you about my latest case.”

“But,” John spluttered, “you were missing! That detective - Lestrade - he came in here looking for you yesterday. You’ve -”

“Lestrade came here?” he asked curiously.

“ _Yes_ he came here. You’ve told him you’re alive, right?” John asked, ever practical.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ I have. I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh, right, because smart people just disappear without warning and cause everyone to worry,” John shot back sarcastically, finding he was a strange mixture of angry and relieved.

Sherlock gave John a look that John couldn’t read, then replied cooly, “I had to go undercover in order to catch a serial killer, John. I couldn’t risk anyone ruining my cover, so obviously I could tell no one.”

“And what if you had been killed?” John demanded. “Your family and friends might’ve never figured out what happened to you.”

“Oh I highly doubt that. You’ve met Mycroft. Anyway, I didn’t die and Lestrade should be apprehending the murderer about now, so I would say it all worked out rather nicely,” Sherlock stated, looking very pleased with himself.

John glared at him, then turned sharply on his heel and went back to the computer. He heard Sherlock following him, but didn’t turn to acknowledge him.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock stated as he strode to the front of the counter to face John. “Why?”

“Well, because you need to think about how your actions affect people who care about you,” John said shortly.

“You consider yourself my friend, then,” Sherlock replied. It wasn’t a question.

John glanced up at Sherlock, then trained his gaze back on his computer screen. “I...well, I’d like to be, yeah,” he replied hesitantly. 

“People don’t want to be friends with me,” Sherlock responded flatly.

“I do,” John said stubbornly. “You’re the most interesting, brilliant person I’ve ever met, and your visits are the highlight of my day,” he admitted.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly, and silence stretched between them for a moment. Sherlock looked away and John took the opportunity to study Sherlock. The arrogant confidence was diminished, mixed with a bit of confusion and perhaps hope. “Do you want to hear about my case?” he asked carefully.

Despite his best efforts, a wide smile spread across John’s face. “Yeah, I do.”

Without further ado, Sherlock launched into a vivid explanation of his adventures, complete wild hand gestures and nonstop pacing. John listened with rapt attention, as though he could live vicariously through Sherlock and escape his monotonous life for a bit. Every so often he couldn’t help but interject with comments of “Amazing!” or “Fantastic!”  
“Oh, and you were correct,” Sherlock said after his tale was complete.

John frowned in confusion, having lost Sherlock’s train of thought. To be fair, that wasn’t very hard to do. “I was correct about what?” he asked.

“The book you lent me. I didn’t much care for it. Some stretches were dreadfully boring, and I didn’t like the tales about that rabbit prince character.”

“El-ahrairah,” John supplied immediately, then wished he hadn’t when Sherlock smirked.

“Yes, him. I did learn a few things, though, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

“Oh?” John asked with a hint of a smile. “And what’s that?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in response. “Oh, perhaps you’ll find out someday.”

John stared at Sherlock curiously, wondering if this was the detective’s version of flirting. John felt a rush of excitement at the prospect that Sherlock was, perhaps, attracted to him too. “Well, I did warn you that you wouldn’t like it, so you can’t blame me for any fits of boredom you may have suffered from,” he teased.

“Yes, well, thankfully the case livened up enough to save me from death by boredom at the hands of rabbits,” Sherlock quipped. Just then, his phone beeped and he quickly scanned the text. “Speaking of the case, Lestrade caught the suspect. Seems he has an accomplice as well, though his whereabouts are unknown. He pocketed the phone and looked back at John. “Would you like to play a game?”

John raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Er, what? Don’t you have to go help catch the accomplice?” he asked in surprise.

Sherlock laughed. “I don’t do _everything_ for them, you know. I’m sure they can handle that bit on their own. They’ll offer the suspect a deal, and he’ll give up the accomplice’s location. Now, do you want to play a game or not?”

“Well, I suppose I could. I mean,” he held up his list, “I’ve got these books to put in the computer, but that can wait until later,” he grinned. “So what sort of game? I doubt I’ll have much of a chance against you, but I’m up for it.”

“You appear to be decent at deducing which books I’d like - well, at least ones that won’t bore me. I’ll tell you the title of a book, and you tell me why I liked it. In some cases, there is only a portion or an aspect of the book that I appreciated. Care to try?”

John laughed in disbelief. “Sounds nearly impossible, but sure, I’ll give it a go. But you have to tell me whether it’s the whole book you liked, or just a part, okay?”  
“That makes it far too easy, but all right,” Sherlock agreed. “The first one will be an easy one. A Separate Peace by John Knowles. There was only one part that I appreciated.”

John thought seriously about it for a while. Thankfully, he had read the book in secondary school and could recall a fair amount of it. He was surprised Sherlock mentioned this book, as it was largely about the friendship between two boys at school, and Sherlock had said that was not really his area. Hesitantly, he ventured, “You liked the irony that even though Finny was the liveliest of the group, it was life - the bone marrow - that killed him.” After a moment of silence, John asked, suddenly nervous, “Did I get it right?”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Yes, actually. How did you figure it out?”

Shrugging and smiling sheepishly, John replied, “Well, I had to write a paper on the book once, and it sort of stuck with me I suppose. And you seem to like the weirder stuff in books, so I made a guess.”

“It’s not the ‘weird stuff,’ John, it’s -” But his phone beeped again and he paused mid-sentence to read the message. “Ah. Interesting. Do you have any books on African-American poetry?” he asked.

“Oh, um. Let me check,” John said as he began typing at the computer. “Is that Lestrade again?”

“Of course not. This is for a private client,” Sherlock stated as if that were all the explanation John would ever need.

“Okay then,” he said slowly, stretching out the words as he scanned through a list on the screen. “Looks like we do. It’s on a top shelf, though, so I’ll have to get it for you.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, an amused expression on his face. “You’re not exactly tall. I’m sure I could reach it just fine on my own.”

“Yes, I realize I’m not the size of a giraffe,” John shot back, “but it’s store policy. One time a lady sued us because she fell off one of the stepladders. She didn’t win, but to avoid any more lawsuits employees have to be the ones to use the stepladders now.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said as he followed John to the Poetry section. “I assure you I am not going to sue you. I have no need to sue anyone,” he protested.

“Sorry,” John said as he moved the stepladder and began to climb. “Store policy. Nothing I can do about it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Ah, here it is,” he said, pulling a dark red book off the shelf. He turned around to face Sherlock, leaning slightly on the ladder for support. “Anthem of Home: A Collection of African-American Poetry,” he read. “Will that work?”

“Hm. Let me see it,” Sherlock replied, holding out his hand.

John leaned down slightly to hand the book to Sherlock, but slipped and skidded down a rung. With a jolt of panic, he grabbed a rung behind him just as his other arm landed on Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt two arms under his own attempting to stop the fall, then suddenly his lips were pressed to Sherlock’s in an accidental kiss. John was still for a split second, then hurriedly detached himself as he slid the rest of the way down the ladder into a standing position. Sherlock was still there, arms on either side of John, shock and curiosity painted on his face. He recovered quickly and stepped back to allow John to move away from the ladder. 

John could feel his face turning scarlet as he stammered out an apology. “Oh god, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I just - I lost my footing and slipped and I’m really, really sorry,” he said, holding out the book and avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. John was still in a state of shock; that sort of thing only happened in movies. Not real life, and especially not to him. Sherlock was never going to come back here again and John’s life was going to go back to being dull and ordinary. 

Sherlock accepted the book, still staring at John. “Right. It’s fine. I have to go,” he said, then hurriedly left the shop, the bell above the door sounding more to John like the toll of a church bell at a funeral than a friendly chime. 

Wandering back to the counter, he played the scene over again in his mind. He was such an idiot. Although it had been an accident, it seemed he had ruined the first friendship he had made in months. He stared dully at his work, not feeling much like doing anything. The bell chimed again, and John looked up to see Sherlock. He blinked, thinking perhaps his fevered, hopeful imagination had conjured up a specter of the man.

“John. It occurs to me that as a book store employee, you could be useful to me on this case. Would you like to come?” Sherlock asked, as if nothing at all had happened a few minutes before.

The responsible side of John was telling him that no, he couldn’t possibly leave the shop in the middle of the day to go off doing who knows what. The rest of John told the responsible side to shut it. “God yes,” John replied, and he grabbed his keys to lock up the shop, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’ on his way out.

***

Late afternoon found John and Sherlock sitting in a cafe. John had the beginnings of a black eye, and Sherlock’s shirt was torn. Both wore smiles and completely ignored the tea rapidly cooling in front of them.

“That was brilliant,” John giggled. “If all poetry clubs are like that, I’ll never miss another meeting,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

“Suppose I’ll have to purchase that book we brought, then,” Sherlock grinned. He had torn many pages out of it and flung them in the face of their attacker as a screen. They hadn’t seen it again after Sherlock had chucked it at the crazed man’s head.

“I daresay you will,” John replied as he took a sip of his cool tea. His smile faded a bit as he remembered he had closed up shop in the middle of the day. “You know, I might get fired for this.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Sherlock said lazily as he shifted closer to John. “You could always come be my assistant.”

“Right, yeah, I’ll just lose my job, get kicked out of my flat, and follow you around London doing god knows what,” John laughed. 

“That’s fine. I’ve got an extra room in my flat. Lovely landlady, too,” Sherlock said as he moved even closer, expression suddenly serious.

John licked his lips, eyes darting from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips and back again. “Um, yeah? Well that might be all right, then,” he replied quietly.

“Good,” Sherlock answered, then closed the distance between them with a kiss. His lips were warm against John’s, and John leaned into it, enjoying the sensation immensely. Then Sherlock pulled away a little, and it was over much too soon. It must have shown in John’s face, because Sherlock smirked. “Would you like to tour my flat, see if the spare bedroom would be a good fit for you?” he asked, a little too innocently.

John grinned in reply, grabbed his hand, and pulled him out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Separate Peace is by John Knowles  
> Anthem of Home: A Collection of African-American Poetry is not a real book.

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely cover by moonblossom!: http://archiveofourown.org/works/699689

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Right Inside the Human Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/699689) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)
  * [[PODFIC] Right Inside the Human Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1970457) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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